Death starves us of life. So we learn to fabricate our own immortalities.
Just because you can’t express your feelings it doesn’t mean they’re not deep.
A mixture, before the English, of irritation and bafflement, of having this same language, same past, so many same things, and yet not belonging to them any more. Being worse than rootless... speciesl...
Comprendo que soy terriblemente cobarde. No quiero morir, porque amo la vida apasionadamente. ¡Nunca había sabido hasta hoy cuánta es mi ansia de vivir! Si consigo librarme de este infierno, jamás pod...
Sometimes to return is a vulgarity.
I do not plan my fiction any more than I normally plan woodland walks; I follow the path that seems most promising at any given point, not some itinerary decided before entry.
The height the dupe has fallen is measured by his anger.
I am Emma Woodhouse. I feel for her, of her and in her. I have a different sort of snobbism, but I understand her snobbism. Her priggishness. I admire it. I know she does wrong things, she tries to or...
He had the charm of all people who believe implicitly in themselves, that of integration.
Once upon a time there was a young prince who believed in all things but three. He did not believe in princesses, he did not believe in islands, he did not believe in God. His father, the king, told h...
She smiled at him as they waited for their dessert, her chin poised on her clasped hands.'You're being very silent.''That's how men cry.
Sıradan insan uygarlığın lanetidir.
For him the tragedy of Homo sapiens is that the least fit to survive breed the most.
Ordinary experience, from waking second to second, is in fact highly synthetic (in the sense of combinative or constructive), and made of a complexity of strands, past memories and present perceptions...
I hate the uneducated and the ignorant. I hate the pompous and the phoney. I hate the jealous and the resentful. I hate the crabbed and mean and the petty. I hate all ordinary dull little people who a...
I could scream abuse at him all day long; he wouldn't mind at all. It's me he wants, my look, my outside; not my emotions or my mind or my soul or even my body. Not anything human.
It's like football. Two sides may each want to beat the other, they may even hate each other as sides, but if someone came and told them football is stupid and not worth playing or caring about, then...
I am infinitely strange to myself.
It's despair at the lack of feeling, of love, of reason in the world. It's despair that anyone can even contemplate the idea of dropping a bomb or ordering that it should be dropped. It's despair that...
I have hope. But it's all an illusion.